He stops eating my jam for an instant and agrees with me. Then, on second thought, he generously offers me some jam. I sit up and struggle for a few seconds with a piece of the bread we carry for nourishment and defence, spread some jam on it, get out a bottle of Sauterne (at the front wine is wine at all hours of the day and night), and we settle down to breakfast. Breakfast is a purely personal investment, as it officially consists of coffee—so called by courtesy—and bread. The French bread comes in round loaves a foot in diameter, and is never issued until four days old, and is often aged ten or more before we see it. Fresh bread, it is believed, would give a soldier indigestion. French officialdom believes the same evil of water, and provides each soldier with a quart a day of cheap red wine called, in the _argot_ of the trenches, _Pinard_. Breakfast over, we make our way to the barn, our official quarters, by means of stepping-stones previously laid from the car, and chat with the other members of the section. Today we are moving up into the zone of fire itself, and are somewhat excited. The entire section is to move to a little destroyed town, Ville-sur-Couzances. From there six cars are always to be on duty taking care of our first wounded. The _chef_ and the _sous-chef_ join us presently. They went up yesterday and were shown the _postes_, and consequently come in for a storm of questions. The _sous-chef_ tells us that today we shall hear them “whistle both ways.” We are thrilled. He asks us if we are ready. We are—even Rover. Then the lieutenant comes in. He speaks a few words to the _chef_. The _chef_ blows his whistle four times. It is the signal for assembly. He gives us a few instructions. We run to our cars. One whistle—we crank up. Two whistles—the leading ambulance painfully and noisily tears itself from its bed of mud. The others follow in regular succession, until the last car melts into the grey, cold mist. When shall we see Erize again? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ II IN ACTION VILLE-SUR-COUZANCES is also at this time the headquarters of Section XXIX, which has just lost two men, and Section LXIX, which is a gear-shift section,—we are quite proudly Fords. Section XIX, French, whom we are relieving, examines us critically, but makes no audible comments. To the six of us chosen for the first “roll” there is but one impatient thought. We hear “Napoleon”—a French private attached to our section for _ravitaillement_ because he could do nothing else—telling the cook and several unwilling assistants how to dispose of the field range. In the French manner, instead of ignoring him, the stove is discarded, and a Latin argument follows much to the amusement if not to the edification of the onlookers. This does not concern us, and as soon as we get the order to roll we are blithely off.